


You'd Be Surprised What You Can Live Through

by 14CombatGeishas



Series: You Were Probably Happier Yesterday [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Doug is pretty pathetic in this one, Gen, Original Character(s), Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-Canon, Sickness, copious pop culture references, pre-Anne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-16 19:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10578447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14CombatGeishas/pseuds/14CombatGeishas
Summary: With a baby on the way Doug Eiffel decides to clean up his act.  It's probably the hardest thing he's ever done.  Explores Doug's life from the perspective of those who know him...or who thought they did.Plus, the raspberry, a highly classified and sensitive photo, the world's worst Baby Alive, Agent D, Batman comics, hyena noise, Xenomorph Jack Nicholson, "hey gang," and pineapple pizza.





	1. What Doesn't Kill You

 

Second Lieutenant Monique Roux met Doug Eiffel when he first got to Texas.  She didn’t know where the Hell he drifted in from or where the Hell he thought he was going.  Back then she thought he was nothing more than a stubborn airman with nothing close to ambition or promise.  She remembered the first time she saw him:  this twenty-two-year-old lazy bastard with his feet up on the console, headset on one ear, earbud in the other.  He’d saluted her in the most half-assed way imaginable, with a bored expression on his face.  She was a sergeant then and in no mood for newbie bullshit.  She had kicked the chair out from under him, which, after his initial “ _ Gah!  _ What the crap?!” he laughed off.  That low chuckle she knew so well by now, four years later.  Everything was a joke.  Anything could be shrugged off like a lizard’s dead skin.  

At first Monique would have been more than happy to throw Eiffel out on his sorry ass, but, somehow, he managed to grow on her.  She knew exactly how Airman Eiffel managed to grow on her, despite all her better judgment and his being one of the most annoying men in the world: he also turned out to be one of the best.  One of the most loyal and most generous.  An excellent listener, sympathetic, a commiserator, a  _ friend _ .  He was always there to make things better…goofy and funny to a fault. 

It started when it turned out they were both bisexual.  She found out about him because Eiffel seemed to think “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was a joke or had been implemented on Opposite Day and actually meant “Tell Everyone Immediately.”  At first she admired what she thought must be chutzpah but quickly realized it might have been something closer to ignorance bordering on stupidity.  Didn’t he realize that even if the Air Force didn’t throw him out, he was in  _ Texas?   _ About four inches from one of those Good Ol’ Boys who would just love to beat the literal shit out of an ambiguously brown queer man?  

She cornered him one morning in the mess and, under the pretense of needing his help with a satellite readout, she got him to follow her.  He sighed and got dramatically to his feet, “I guess I have to do  _ everything  _ around here.  Lead the way, Lt. Roux.”  She took him to control but then yanked him into an unoccupied office, locking the door behind them.  “Oh God,” Eiffel, eyes wide as her fingers flicked the lock, “you’re going to kill me.  Was it because I said you had a redwood tree up your ass or because I was the one who keeps putting out their cigarettes on the control panel?” 

“What?  You did what?” she hadn’t been thinking of either of those things. 

“Nothing.  I don’t even smoke,” he said.  They both knew full well that that was a lie.  At present he had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve, completely visible. 

“Listen, you goddamn idiot, what I’m about to tell you is  _ very important _ .  You are going  _ listen  _ for once in your sorry life, you are going to take it to heart, and you are going to correct your behavior.” 

“That’s –” 

Before he could finish, she grabbed him by the arm and twisted it behind his back.  It sent his cigarettes tumbling to the floor.  She yanked the arm upward until it was painful but not yet threatening to pull anything out of any sockets.  “You are going to  _ listen _ , you are going to correct your behavior, and you are going to keep what I said a  _ secret _ , understood?” 

“Ow!  Ow!  Jesus tapdancing Christ!  Okay!  Okay!   _ What is it?!” _ he shouted.

“I’ve heard you telling people you were bisexual.  You were trying to pick up Airman Jeffries.” 

“What?” He looked over his shoulder at her in disbelief.  “ _ So?  _  I wanted to see if he was up for anything.  It wasn’t even during my shift!  OW!” He whined as she gave his arm a firmer tug.  

“ _ That is not the point! _ ” she hissed.  “I’ve already told Jeffries that I’d make him sorry if he went to anyone higher up about it.  You’re lucky he doesn’t want to cost you your stupid job.  You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” 

“You’d be surprised how often I hear thaaa—OW!   _ Okay!    _ Just stop doing that! _ ”   _ She cut him off with another good twist.  He was squirming, and if she hadn’t had the training supplied by three older brothers and a younger sister, she probably would have lost her grip on him as he wriggled like an octopus, all loose joints.  

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me!” she growled.  “I’ve been bi and in a military family my whole life.  I’ve been black and bisexual in the South just as long.” 

He stopped squirming.  There was a pause.   Then glanced back at her again.  “Why are you telling me?  I thought you were cancelling the party.” 

“I am telling you this because I want you to know I understand how you survive,” her tone softened to an urgent whisper rather than an enraged growl.  She waited for a retort.  None came.  “You can’t tell everyone.  You can’t tell  _ anyone _ .  Sooner or later it’s gonna catch up to you.  It’s gonna catch up hard.  If you’re lucky, you’ll just end up unemployed.  If you’re unlucky, someone’s gonna take out all his racism and homophobia on your stupid ass and you end up beaten beyond all recognition lying in a ditch somewhere.” 

“That’s a cheerful image, Lieutenant, thanks,” Eiffel muttered. 

“It’s honesty,” she corrected him.  “The Air Force isn’t gonna care what you do on your own time.  Remember,  _ Don’t  _ Ask,  _ Don’t  _ Tell.  They mean that.  And there are places even down here in Texas where you’re safe.  This isn’t the apocalyptic hellscape you guys up North seem to think it is.” 

A snort from Eiffel, but no response.  

“You just gotta be careful.  Got it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And if you tell  _ anyone  _ that I told you I’m bi, I will gut you.  Got it?” 

“…It’s hard not to when you say it like that…” 

“Good.  I’m glad.”  She let him go.  

And he listened to her.  From then on, that shared secret brought them closer together.  Privately exchanged smiles.  Eiffel assessing her taste in the other genders (those beyond male and female were new to Monique, but Eiffel seemed to be very well-versed in this kind of thing) when they were alone.  He even seemed to respect her more.  She eventually realized why: she’d made herself human to him.  He kept her secret and his word. Looking back on it, she probably didn’t need to force him.  The threat of violence was unnecessary. 

As they became friendly, she discovered there was more to Eiffel than was at first apparent.  She discovered he was warm and kind.  He was a good listener even if he wasn’t a good talker.  Or rather, he was an excellent talker, he just never said anything of actual value.  Often he couldn’t really help you solve your problems but he’d get as incensed as you did and sometimes, often, that helped.  He didn’t treat her like a lot of the other men did – he never had – but she came to appreciate that more the closer they got.  He didn’t undermine her for being a woman; he didn’t try to flirt with her or harass her.  Once he’d even covered for her after a coworker tried to grab her from behind and she threw the guy over her shoulder and onto the ground: “No, Captain, I didn’t see anything.  Lt. Roux and I were just headed to lunch, sir.  I was with Lt. Roux the whole time, sir.  With all due respect, I don’t know what Lt. Barker is talking about, sir.  I’m not sure where he got those bruises, sir.  Maybe he tripped?  Maybe he’s hitting the ol’ wacky tobacky again?”

The first time she realized she called him her friend was when he helped her move a couch up six flights of stairs.  Once they got to her door she realized that while she measured the  _ room  _ she’d forgotten to measure the  _ door _ .  It wouldn’t fit.  And while he complained, Eiffel helped her take it back down again. She remembered him huffing and puffing, “Can we please stop for a cigarette?  I need my strength…Leave me where I fall and save yourself…Can’t we just throw this damn thing out the window?…What if we just slid it down the stairs and rode it like a bobsled?…Do you remember the  _ Friends  _ episode where they did this?  PIVOT!   _ PIV-OT! _ ”  

But what she most remembered most fondly was after they got the damn thing back onto the sidewalk.  They sat on the couch she couldn’t get into her apartment, waiting for her brother and his pickup, drinking beers in the hundred-plus degree heat of the Texas summer sun, and just talking.  They’d talked about anything and everything and she realized that she didn’t find Doug Eiffel half as annoying as she thought she did.  Really, she liked him quite a lot. Looking back on it, the only thing she regretted about that day was giving him those beers.  They’d killed a six-pack together, but she hadn’t really thought anything of it then. It was only much later that she realized those probably hadn’t been his first or last drinks of the day.  She never would have given them to him if she had known then what she did now.  

She pried and pestered into his life after that.  Family was important to her and she couldn’t imagine a life like Eiffel’s where heritage didn’t seem to matter at all.  They had similar backgrounds, something Monique thought was very important, but Eiffel seemed to think was boring at best.  Eiffel didn’t seem to care much about anything beside the “flagrant” continuations and reboots of classic sci-fi franchises. Both of their fathers had roots in the Caribbean, hers on Martinique, his in “I don’t know, one of the Islands.  Probably somewhere they speak French, right?”  Eiffel wasn’t even sure if he still had family there.  His family didn’t cook with plantains, cassava, or goat.  He didn’t know a word of Antillean, Haitian, or Louisiana Creole.  He never talked about his father.  She could trace her mother’s family back to when they became freemen.  They had been in the armed forces since her great-great grandfather served in the Spanish-American War, a “Buffalo Soldier” in the eventually esteemed 25 th infantry, and that tradition was one of her greatest prides and inspirations.  

Eiffel didn’t seem to have much inspiration.  He almost seemed to lack a past.  Eiffel couldn’t trace his ancestry back further than his mother and Boston, where he was born. His mother’s origins were “I don’t know?  Mixed?  Why do you care?” She cared because it meant Eiffel lacked a ground to take root in.  She cared, because it fit the theme of Douglas Eiffel.  Alone.  Separate.  He only existed in and of himself.  There was nothing around him, below him, above him.  Hiding his loneliness behind a smirk.  He was as disconnected from his heritage as he was from everything else.  

That was something she only realized when she got close to him.  She was one of very few people who knew him beyond a passing acquaintance.  He was friendly to everyone, with everyone, but he was an enigma beyond his favorite movies and TV shows.  He hid behind a grinning mask.  You could tell him everything and he wouldn’t tell you anything, but you’d almost never notice.  He sought company, crowds, companionship, but it never went much deeper than that.  As if he was afraid of letting too many people in.  This lonely little man adrift in the world.  When he was offered harbor, he only touched ground briefly, then kept going.  The only reason she even knew where he lived was because once he’d been too desperate for help to keep her away.  She was his one call from a prison cell. She’d done that a few times already, when he wasn’t talking to Kate. 

He didn’t act secretive, but that just helped him keep even more under lock-and-key.  He was untethered to his past, he was disconnected from his present, and he pointedly never looked to his future.  He was an acacia tree with nothing around it for miles.  A tumbleweed in the wind.  She didn’t know how he even ended up here, how he’d managed to become an expert in anything other than movie trivia.  

But what he lacked in anything resembling inspiration or ambition – indeed, it seemed like his ultimate goal was just to wake up every morning – he made up for in promise.  Even if  _ he _ couldn’t see it.  He was smarter than he gave himself credit for, than anyone did.  He was gifted when it came to radio.  With little effort on his part, she’d seen him unscramble transmissions that had stumped men with years more experience.  She’d seen him zero in on satellite signals others thought were hopelessly lost.  While he couldn’t wait five minutes for a microwave burrito to finish, he could spend hours pouring over transmissions, cleaning them up, isolating sounds, without saying a word the entire time.  He was the fastest and best transmitter she’d ever seen. He could fix almost anything with the bare minimum of supplies.  And he seemed to do it all in spite of himself. She remembered the day she realized Eiffel’s potential.  It was before they were friends. They were in a control tower and she was observing from the door as a favor to Eiffel’s actual CO. Suddenly the radar display hummed, flickered twice, and went completely black.  Monique stiffened. “Fuck,” she’d said.  “Hang on, I’ll get someone qualified to—“ 

“Nah, don’t sweat it,” Eiffel said, batting a hand at her.  

“I’m gonna ‘sweat it,’ Eiffel, we just lost the signal,” she said through bared teeth.

“Sure did,” Eiffel answered, popping a piece of gum in his mouth.  He got up with a grunt of effort.  “But nobody’s given us the raspberry, so I should be able to fix it.” 

“The raspberry?” 

He stood beside the panel, popping his gum noisily.  “Never seen  _ Spaceballs _ ?  Your loss. Got a quarter?” 

“Excuse me?” she reprimanded him.  At that point they were nowhere near friendly enough for him to drop formalities.

“You got a quarter,  _ sir,”  _ he added, running one finger along the seam of the radar panel.  

“Catch.” She tossed it to him.  “You’ve got three minutes before I get an actual mechanic in here.” She knew she shouldn’t be giving him an opportunity to screw up the equipment, but she was morbidly curious about his plan.  Part of her wanted him to succeed and prove to her he was something more than he seemed.  A darker part of her wanted an excuse to get him reprimanded.  

“Aye-aye, sir,” he muttered.  He crouched to pick the quarter up off the floor.  He hadn’t even bothered trying to catch it.  She came forward and watched over his shoulder.  He used the coin to get the panel opened; then with some paperclips, a battery borrowed from the smoke detector, a penny he dug out of his pocket, and the gum he was chewing he managed to bring the radar back online.  His explanation, as she demanded he give it play-by-play, was “you jimmy the thingy here, get this thingamabob all up on this doohickey, put the nine-volt on this guy, twist this, take this Weebo-looking-thing right here and… _ voilà!” _

The radar was back in two minutes thirty.  

After that point, she never doubted his skills again.  

It seemed to Monique that Eiffel drifted in and out of the Air Force like she assumed he did everything else, always turning up in slightly worse shape than last she saw him. She knew it was only a matter of time before he stopped coming back altogether.  And that would hurt her deeply.  Doug Eiffel was a good person and he was wasting his life.  He could be something – probably  _ anything  _ – if he just  _ tried _ . A little effort and he could do anything. But he wouldn’t.  He just wouldn’t.  

Sometimes he disappeared because he got bored. Sometimes she thought it was because he was afraid of doing well. But sometimes there was a far darker reason than either of those.  She knew it – she thought almost everyone in his Section did, even if most people never said anything about it.  He disappeared whenever he fell to hard into drinking.  There had been an intervention at one point, headed by Monique, which at first Eiffel tried to make disappear with his usual glibness, “Yeah, well, I appreciate the concern but I’m less Jack Torrence and more Beggar So. I’m fine.” And when that didn’t work, he just shut her out.  Not listening.  Not acknowledging. As if he could make everything just go away.  He treated the other interveners and her like they were playing a joke on him, then as if they were irrational. It was infuriating.  Eventually, even she gave up.

After that, she swore she wouldn’t get involved.  If he wanted to kill himself that was on him.  Of course, she never stopped worrying.  She even bailed him out of prison a few times for drunk-and-disorderlies and kept the fact secret from his CO out of fear he’d lose his job.  She was very much afraid for him now.  They were friends, despite it all.  She wondered if she was one of his very few sober friends – if she was the only one.  

She hadn’t heard from Eiffel for about a week when she suddenly got a series of late night text messages. The texts were pretty simple.  Confusing, but simple.  Confusing texts weren’t terribly out of character for Doug Eiffel.  Often he sent her pictures of varying quality covering an encyclopedia of subjects: a frog he saw next to a beer bottle, a roller-coaster on the Galveston Island Historic Pleasure Pier after closing, a sign informing her the photographer was entering Ciudad Juárez, a three-legged dog holding its leash in its mouth, Eiffel himself covered in severed prickly pear stems (an anonymous gloved hand was removing them from Eiffel’s bloody flesh with a pair of tweezers as Eiffel gave the cameraperson a thumb’s up), U.S. border patrol leaning in through the car window, the time he managed to fill an entire crossword in with only synonyms for the word “butt” never once having looked at the clues, whatever else struck his fancy.  The pictures alone were never enough to tell Doug Eiffel’s level of sobriety because he sent them to her when he was bored and relatively sober.  She knew this because sometimes they were both on base only a few feet away from each other, and he would send a photo of a cat that had wandered onto the airfield accompanied by the caption “i iz on ur airfield directin ur planez.” Or because he gave updates from the security firms he worked freelance for in his civilian stints.  One such instance, a “highly classified and sensitive” photo, proved to be Eiffel balancing a pencil on the tip of his finger, looking quite pleased with himself. 

The drunk texts usually came after midnight: out of context and wildly misspelled movie quotes, vague recollections about events she may or may not have been present for, or invitations to bars and clubs she would never consider visiting.  But last night’s texts weren’t typical Eiffel – soldier or civilian, relatively sober or drunk.

When she awoke at 6 a.m., there were seven new texts, all from Doug Eiffel.  The contact picture on her phone, Eiffel winking at the camera and shooting off the finger guns, smirked up at her, but the messages were far more serious. 

_ pls com by.  _ This at 2:06

_ keu under mat.  _ A full minute passed before this reached her at 2:07

_ pls brng soupw  _ 2:09

_ water.  _ 2:09

_ Thx.  _ 2:10

Then a full five minutes went by before,  _ i;m srry anoutt evythin _

_ “‘I’m sorry about everything’  Jesus, Eiffel, what have you gotten yourself into this time? _ ” she thought as she rounded the stairwell to Eiffel’s floor.  It was 7 a.m. on a Saturday, but she couldn’t keep herself away.  She needed to make sure he was even alive.  She had stopped by a grocery store on the way, just as it was opening its doors, and bought a 2-liter of water and a few cans of Progresso soup.  When she reached his apartment, she kicked up the corner of the threadbare mat.  No key.  Using her boot, she turned the whole thing over.  Nada.  She hoped Eiffel had just forgotten about it and no one beat her to it.  She sighed and deposited her plastic grocery bag on the ground.  She pulled a bobby pin from her hair, and, after eyeing the lock carefully, began to jimmy it.  In about a minute, she had the thing opened.  The smell in the apartment was terrible, but it was stale air, booze, and cigarette smoke; opened whiskey bottle and month-old ashtray rather than the rotten stench that could have indicated either Eiffel was dead or he’d made a mistake she couldn’t cover up.  The kitchenette was filled with bottles.  That was hardly surprising, the only other time she had been here, it had been the same way. But there were more of them covering the small counter and none were on top of the refrigerator or peeking out of the broken doorless cabinet. Many of the bottles were upended.  As far as she could see all of them were empty.  There were flies around the trash bin, and it was unclear the last time it had been taken out.  The carpet practically crunched underfoot.  

The entire apartment was quiet.  She had the terrible feeling that Eiffel had finally done it.  She was afraid she was about to find not Eiffel, but his corpse, that he had finally managed to kill himself either by suicide or by accident.  That he would be sprawled out on the bathroom floor stone-dead.  

“Eiffel?” she asked.  Nothing.  No response.  

She waited, holding her breath, counted to five, then “Eiffel?” 

Still nothing. 

“Doug?” she tried, cautiously pushing open the bathroom door.  It was blessedly empty.  Then came a sound behind her, like the creaking of wood.  A groan, and it didn’t sound like Eiffel.   It was coming from the closed door, the only room she’d never been in.  She took her M9 from its hidden holster, took a deep breath, and kicked the door open.

It was his bedroom.  Monique had been to Eiffel’s apartment before, but never his bedroom.  It was small, carpeted but unvacuumed, and needed a new coat of paint like the rest of the apartment.  There wasn’t a desk, but he did have a bedside table, dresser, bed, and bookshelf.  The windowsill was long and low.  Every surface was all but hidden by a ground-covering of clutter; cigarette packs, toys, crumpled receipts, extremely official looking documents, spare change, bootleg DVDs without cases, books, out of date magazines, gnawed pencils, bottle caps, tangles of wires and cords, and the other detritus of everyday life.  The curtains were drawn, but a thin strip of light shone through empty beer bottles on the windowsill, making them glow green in the dim light of the room.  There was a HAM radio in one corner, gutted and half reconstructed.  There were speakers and microphones of several different makes, tiny to enormous, scattered around the room. Like a teenager he had posters tacked to his tobacco-yellowed walls: Jack Nicholson’s mad grin from  _ The Shining _ , the cover of The Clash’s  _ London Calling _ , Vader looming over the rest of the cast of  _ The Empire Strikes Back _ , a shot by shot deconstruction of John Cleese’s Silly Walk, The Beatles crossing Abbey Road, Cary Grant running from a biplane in  _ North by Northwest _ .  

Doug Eiffel was sprawled on the bed.  He was half-covered by a blanket and naked except for a pair of black-and-pink boxer shorts, the words  _ Objectify Me  _ written across the ass.  He was facedown on the mattress, his head buried so deep in his pillow she didn’t know how he could breathe.  

“Oh God!  Don’t do that!” he groaned, pressing his hands over his ears.  Shaking hands.  At some point he’d upended the ashtray he had very stupidly placed in his bed, spilling cigarette butts on the sheet. The sheet itself had come up at the edge of his bed, as if he’d been tossing and turning so furiously he’d pulled it away.  He was shivering despite the heat of the stale air in the room.  

“Jesus fucking Christ, what’ve you done to yourself, Eiffel?” 

“Sober,” he groaned into the pillow. His hands now lay on the pillow on either side of his head as if he didn’t have the energy to even bring them back to his sides.  

It hadn’t been the answer she was expecting.  Not after how pointedly he fought her on the intervention.  She blinked, taken aback as if Eiffel’s single word had struck her across the face.  Then, slowly, her wits came back to her, and an overwhelming pity and pride.  She holstered her pistol and crossed to the bed.  “I’m proud of you.” 

A wordless grunt.  

“Can you look at me?” 

“Do I have to?” he asked.  

“It’s an order, Airman,” she said, although her voice was far more gentle than it would be if she were actually talking to an insubordinate soldier.  

He groaned again, “Fine, then you have to empty my puke-pail.”  He rolled over and added as an afterthought, “sir.” 

“It’s not like you could anyway,” Monique said with a  _ tisk  _ of her tongue.  Slowly, he opened his eyes.  She shook her head.  “Jesus, you look like Hell.” Privately Monique always thought Eiffel was pretty attractive.  He was around six feet tall, with thick, curly jet-black hair, and sienna skin.  His eyes were strikingly green, greener than the eyes of most of the white people she’d met.  He had a spattering of freckles that made him look more cute than sexy.  His hair was presently longer than the usual military crew-cut Monique was used to seeing him with.  At the moment, he looked worse than she had ever seen him.  His face was bloodless and sweaty, his eyes were red, bruised, and sunken, and he had at least four days worth of stubble on his face, threatening a full beard.

“Thanks,” he grumbled.

“No problem.  Anybody else coming?” 

“No,” he answered. She couldn’t tell if he was sorry about it or not.  The culmination of all his years of effort to keep them all away:  at his most desperate, he was by himself.  There was no family coming to help him.  She was the only friend he called.  Maybe he was just used to it.  She’d never seen someone with so many friends and acquaintances and partners who was actually so lonesome.  It was like he was just a character passing through the scene of a play; once he reached the wing that whole life would be gone.  No friends.  No lovers.  No mom.  No dad.  No sisters or brothers.  No nieces and nephews.  No cousins.  No aunts or uncles.  No grandparents. 

Just Doug Eiffel all alone. 

“Well, that’s okay.  I’m here now.  And I brought your soup.” 

“You’re the best, Lieutenant,” he closed his eyes again.  “Maybe I’ll even be able to keep it down.”

“Yeah, lemme take care of this for you,” she toed the bucket beside the bed, glad he’d at least been able to haul himself far enough to make it in there.  She carefully lifted it and carried it to the bathroom to empty and rinse it.  She dumped the contents in the toilet.  Then, face twisting into a grimace, she filled the bucket with water to rid it of the remains.  

“Being sober sucks.  Is this how you feel all the time?”  Eiffel croaked from his bed.  

“You’ve been sober before, Eiffel.” 

“Not for this long.  This is the longest I’ve been without a drink since…” he trailed off and let out a hoarse sound almost like a mirthless laugh.  “Jesus, a long time.”  

That struck her.  It was one of the saddest things she’d ever heard.  She straightened, the water still filling the bucket, and looked at her own startled reflection.  He was disconnected.  Adrift.  A stranger not only to everyone else but perhaps even to his own thoughts.  “When’s the last time you drank?” 

“I don’t know what day it is.” 

“Saturday,” she answered.  “7:15 a.m.” 

“I can’t do math.  Uh…like a day and a bit?  I had some beer and tequila Thuuuuuuursday,” he said the word as if he was considering the answer,  “…night, I think.  I know the whole ‘beer before liquor’ thing, but I always ended it with ‘don’t be a wimp.’”

“Then you poured everything out.” 

“Yeah, I did.  Oh God, I feel like my head’s gonna explode.” 

“You got a fever?” she asked, emptying the bucket of the dirty water.

“I don’t know,” Eiffel answered, his voice had become softer and she realized he buried his head in the pillow again.  

“You feel like you got a fever?” 

“I feel like I’m dying,” he answered. 

“Anything other than that?” She put the bucket down beside him.  

Eiffel laughed humorlessly, “Like I need a drink.” 

“Don’t even joke,” Monique said threateningly.  

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I just feel like…well, like shit,” he mumbled.  

“You gotta be really out of it,” Monique agreed.  

“Why’s that?” 

“I’ve been here five minutes and there hasn’t been a single pop culture reference.” 

“…I feel worse than…that guy…from that movie by…somebody…it’s from the 1970s, probably,” he managed.

“Don’t tire yourself out.” 

“Thanks.” 

“You have anything to eat or drink since you last filled up that bucket?” she asked. 

“No,” he answered.  Then he added into the pillow, “which is weird because I swear I can taste Mountain Dew.” 

“That  _ is _ weird,” she agreed.  She took the bottle of water out of the plastic bag resting on Eiffel’s nightstand.  She eyeballed a plastic cup resting on its side next to his unplugged alarm clock.  She picked it up and cautiously sniffed its insides.  There wasn’t any particular smell that jumped out at her, neither booze nor mold, and the inside seemed free of stains.  “This cup clean?” 

“Cup?” 

“On your table?” 

“Table?” 

“Eiffel…” 

“I think so?” he said after a long pause.  “I don’t remember.” 

“I hope it is for your sake, then,” she sighed and poured some water into it.  “Sit up, we’re getting some fluids into you.” 

“You don't have to do this,” Eiffel told her.  “Most people don’t want to play house with their subordinate as the world’s worst Baby Alive.  Hey, I got a reference in there.” 

“Shut up and lift your head,” she scolded him.  “You’re gonna get hydrated.”

He let out a breath and did as he was told. He reached for the water, but between the angle and how much he shook it was clear he would only drop it.  She didn’t let it go. Instead he just put his hand over hers. He took a few sips then dropped back onto the pillow with a groan.

Silence.  Eiffel rolled so he was facing away from her.  Minutes ticked by in the quiet darkness.  He shivered and curled in on himself so tightly she couldn’t see much more than the ‘c’ of his back.  She took out her Samsung and punched ‘alcohol withdrawal’ into Google.  She would read more later, but she needed to know at least the basics immediately if she was going to be any help at all.  Upon unlocking her phone the first thing she saw was Doug’s contact info, complete with grinning photo, so very different from the pathetic lump in front of her now.  She read a list off WebMD as a silence lingered between them.  

“Have you slept?” she asked. 

“No,” he answered. 

“Are you worried?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered, he looked over at her.  “Why?” 

“Nothing, no reason…” she muttered.  There was a long silence.  “How long've you been like this, Eiffel?” she managed to ask, finally.  

“Thursday.”  He didn’t lift his head from the pillow. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Monique said.  She took a deep breath.  “I mean how long’ve you been…it’s been since before you joined up with the Air Force, at least since before I met you.  I’ve seen your flask...all those bottles in your kitchen…when you used to show up in the early morning in sunglasses…the bartender at Last Call Bar—”

“Miguel,” Eiffel said automatically. 

“Yeah, him.  He said he used to see you almost every night…how long’ve you been…?” she trailed off.  She wasn’t sure how to ask it in such a way that she wasn’t just rubbing is condition in his face, especially when he looked so beaten and pathetic.  

“Soooo, how long’ve I been a worthless drunk?” he asked flatly.  

“I wasn’t gonna say it like that,” she winced.  

“But you could.  You’d be right.” 

“You aren’t worthless,” she said cautiously. 

“Sure,” he said with that dark chuckle.  “I’m super worth-ful.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Monique said.  “How long?” 

“A while,” he answered.  

“I’m trying to help you, Eiffel. The longer you’ve been like this, the worse it’s gonna get.”  

“Look, Lieutenant, I appreciate you doing this, but it's none of your busin–.”

That sent a spike of anger through her.  How dare he?  How dare he tell her that?  She was here as his friend, because he was in danger, because she cared about his health and he knew that she did.  Why else would he have called her?  He couldn’t shut her out now because he wanted keep some bit of shameful information secret.  He wasn’t allowed to do that to her.  Not now.  Not when he needed her.  

“No!” she cut him off, “Don't you  _ dare _ ‘look Lieutenant’ me, Douglas Eiffel!  I am not here as a Lieutenant!  If I was only that I would have had your ass thrown out of the US armed forces  _ years  _ ago!  God knows, maybe I should have!  I am not here because you’re an airman and I'm your higher-up. I am here as Monique Roux, your friend!  I am here because I  _ care _ about your dumb ass!  I just emptied out your damn puke-pail!   _ Don’t you dare _ tell me it is none of my business!   _ I want to help you!  _  And you cannot keep me out!  Not anymore!” 

A silence followed.  Eiffel rolled over to face her. He was staring in bleary disbelief.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” she asked. 

“Fifteen,” he said, rolling to face the ceiling.

“What?” 

 “That’s how old I was when it started. When I started drinking all the time.  I was 15 or somewhere around there.  I’m in for a Hell of a ride, huh?” 

She swallowed.  She realized why he didn’t want to say anything now.  He had been a child.  “Yeah, sounds like it.” 

“Lieutenant—“

“Stop calling me Lieutenant,” she said gently.  “I told you, I’m here as your friend.  Lemme get you some soup.” 

She turned to leave when he croaked her name from the bed, “Monique?” 

She paused, “Yeah?”

“Thanks.” 

“Let’s just get you straightened out.  Then you can thank me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm back? I'm sorry I took so long on this. Also this doesn't mean I'm abandoning my SI-5 fic. There was some confusion with my proofreader and he gave me this back before the next chapter of Gemütlichkeit, or Everyone Has a First. I should be putting these two up side by side and after that I should return to my usual posting style.
> 
>  
> 
> Also my head canon for Eiffel is based very heavily on [Randomdraggon's](http://randomdraggon.tumblr.com/). I saw specifically [this](http://68.media.tumblr.com/e5c0f4373c24f49e36b81e65bf3df81b/tumblr_nsj2mdVm4V1s9sccqo1_1280.gif) image of Eiffel and now I can't see him any other way.


	2. What Could Kill You

 

Eiffel didn’t seem to own any real silverware.  Everything was plastic.  She hadn’t expected everything to be disposable.  He had one pot, its bottom burned black, and she used it to heat the soup on his electric stove.  She put coffee on for herself, one of the few appliances he seemed to own. Made sense, she couldn't remember a day she saw him at the base without a thermos filled to the brim with bitter black coffee.  

“It’s supposed to taste like battery acid,” he explained the one time she tried it and nearly spilled the whole thing out in disgust. “Coffee's not supposed to be sweet.  I’ve got candy for that.”  

Monique had begged to differ, and the argument that followed had been one of the stupidest she had ever been in. She knew now that the coffee was probably how he managed to appear sober.  Right now she needed it to cope with the ordeal ahead.  While the soup heated she kept reading about withdrawal.  She was not ready for this.  She wondered if she should take him to a hospital now while he was still lucid enough to understand what was going on.  

She went back into the room where Eiffel was lying on his side. In one hand she carried the bowl of soup, and in the other, her chipped mug of terrible coffee. She stood watching him for a moment.  “ _ Who are you, Douglas Eiffel?  What do you care about?  Where do you come from?  Where are you going?”  _ she thought.  “ _ Well, nowhere for now.” _

“Are you...are you staring at me?” he asked, one eye cracking open.  

“Just thinking,” she answered. “Soup?”

“Let's see if I can keep it down,” he grumbled. He sat up with a groan.  “I feel like my head’s going to explode.”

“It’s going to feel that way,” Monique assured him. “I looked up some of what's going to happen while I was in the kitchen. Your stove sucks by the way.”

“Yeah, it does,” Doug agreed.

Monique picked up the soup.  “I’m going to help you with this, okay?  You don’t need to spill hot soup all over your chest, too.”

Doug nodded groggily, “Sounds good, I don’t need to look like the worst Freddy Krueger cosplayer.  What kind is it?”

“Chicken noodle,” she answered.

“Awesome,” he gave her a tired smile.  “I was worried it was gonna be lentil or some other veggie crap.”

“I know you better than that.”  She picked up the soup bowl and carefully offered him a spoonful.  

“No choo-choo train?” Doug asked, clearly aware of how pathetic this must have looked.  

“You’re a big boy now, Eiffel, I think you can handle it without the noises.”

“It’s your fault if I get fussy,” Doug assured her.  He slurped the soup off the spoon, swallowed.  “And if I’m supposed to call you ‘Monique,’ you can drop the ‘Eiffel’ thing.  It’s just ‘Doug.’”

“You got it, ‘Doug,’” she consented.  He took another spoonful.  

“Warn me if I get too Alex DeLarge-in-the-hospital-scene,” he said as she offered him a third spoonful.

“I don’t remember that scene,” she told him.  “I haven’t seen that movie since my senior year of high school.”

“It’s where he’s in bed and the administrator guy is feeding him…I think he’s the administrator?  Damn, I can’t remember now.  Maybe he’s a doctor.  Crap,” he laughed under his breath and took the next spoonful.  “It’s only like the most famous movie ever and I can’t remember.  He’s being fed and he keeps popping his mouth open for more food.”

“Well, you ain’t doing that because you keep talking,” Monique pointed out.

Eiffel – Doug – smirked, “Sorry.  Can’t help myself.  Can you wait a second?” he added as she came with another spoonful.  “Gotta let my stomach settle.”  

“Sure.”  She emptied the spoon back into the bowl and stirred the soup thoughtfully, watching Doug’s gray face as he sat with one arm wrapped around his stomach.  

A moment of silence, and then, “So why are you doing this?  Why now?”

Doug looked up at her eyes, focusing on her face.  “What do you mean?”

“Why are you giving up drinking now?”

He gave her a shaky smile, “I gotta.”

“You had to two years ago when I organized that intervention,” she pointed out frankly. “Everyone who drinks like you do – did –  _ has _ to.  What  _ made  _ you?”

“A lot,” Doug said with a bitter chuckle, so very close to his usual snicker, only a shade darker.  It made the normal laugh seem so much sadder.  

“Ready for another spoonful?” Monique asked.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Give me an example of what changed?”

Doug swallowed and gave himself time to compose his answer.  “Kate,” he began. 

Monique groaned. She had never met the mysterious Kate Garcia, but she’d heard quite a lot about her from Doug. Whenever Doug was in love with her, he painted a picture of a funny, brave, captivating – if slightly manic – wonder woman.  Whenever they were fighting, she became what Monique could only think of as a psycho-bitch from Hell.  Doug never used those words, but Doug never used the word “bitch.”

Regardless of whether Doug was in love with her or hated her, nothing the pair did together ever sounded like a good idea. Maybe it was because she knew Doug or maybe it was because she knew a thing or two about crazy ex-girlfriends, but Monique tended to rest blame squarely on Kate's shoulders. “Oh no,” groaned Monique, “what’s she done this time?  Look, I know I don't know her but she is  _ bad news _ and you gotta stop talking to her altogether –”  

“You're right,” he said, and she looked at him in surprise.  His face was as serious as his tone.  But when he continued, he made it clear he wasn’t agreeing with her recommendation,  “You  _ don’t  _ know her.  I  _ do _ .   Kate and me are doing this  _ together _ .”

“Really?” 

“Yeah.  Yesterday she went to the doctor, got herself all set up.  Her boss is lending her a hand.  Her sister’s there with her. I was going to go visit her today, but doesn’t look like  _ that’s _ happening any time soon.  Not when I’m about to join the Pink Elephants on Parade.” 

“Maybe we should check you in, too,” Monique suggested and Doug shook his head.  

“No can do.” 

“Why not?” 

“No money, no insurance, no job.  I’ve gotta just ride this one out.” 

Monique bit her lip.  “It could get bad, Doug.” 

“Yeah,” he said, “but so’s medical debt.” 

“Nothing in savings?” 

“Maybe a couple moths.” 

The closer she looked at Doug Eiffel’s life, the more pathetic it got.  She winced.  “Okay, fine.  No hospital.  Not unless things get really bad.  If you have a seizure, I’m checking you in.” 

“A seizure?!” he looked at her in shock.  “Holy crap, I really am going to die, aren’t I?!” 

“No, no!” she said as calmly as possible.  “You’re not going to die.  I’m not going to let you die.  Got it?” 

“No,” he responded, “but I don’t really have a choice.  Oh Christ, I’m gonna die here and my landlady’s gonna find my rotting corpse in my ‘objectify me’ boxers!” 

“Shush!” she ordered.  “I told you, you aren’t going to die.  I’m staying here.  I’m getting you through this.  Now eat your soup!” He gave her a pathetic wide-eyed look.  “No puppy eyes, just soup.” 

He took another spoonful and a long silence fell over them again.  Doug looked anxious.  

“I’m going to keep bugging you about this.  Why did you two decide to finally clean up?  You said you were like this since…” She was about to say “since you were a kid,” but Doug winced at just the first part of the sentence, ashamed or afraid of the mirror she held forcibly to him, and, instead, she just trailed off and began again.  “Why now?” 

He took a deep breath, and then, as if he couldn't keep it a secret, “Kate’s pregnant.” 

“And you’re the dad?” 

“And bingo was his name-o,” Eiffel said.  Then another laugh, this one somewhere between a laugh and a sob, “I’m going to be a dad.”  He became more serious again, “I’m going to be a real dad. Not a shitty one.”

“That's...really noble of you,” Monique said.

“I’m a –  _ Bucket! _ ” Eiffel choked groping for it.  It took her a second to react but she got it under his chin in time.  

She patted him on the back as he shuddered through the last of it. He rested for a moment, sweaty forehead on the outer rim of the plastic bucket.

He wiped his mouth on his shaking hand. “I'm a real Gryffindor,” he croaked, still clinging to the bucket as if for support. 

“I only ever saw the movies,” Monique admitted.

“I stopped halfway through book six. They got too long for my tiny brain.” Eiffel went green again and thrust his head back into the bucket.  He retched again and again until it was just an empty heave, a dry sound from the pit of his gut that made Monique wince sympathetically.  “Sorry about that,” he said in a voice like sandpaper, face still in the bucket, “Where were we?”

“You’re going to be a dad,” she said.

“Right.  So we figured it was time to give up this…” he gestured vaguely at the room around him, “…this.”

“Are you…excited?” she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah,” he smiled queasily at her.  He still had his head leaning against the outer brim of the bucket.   “Yeah, I am.”

“Give me that,” said Monique, wrinkling her nose.  

“Thanks.”  He let go of the bucket and fell back against the headboard. He still sat upright but he looked like he might list over.

“What's Kate say about all this?” she asked, standing up.

“We’re doing it together," he said as she crossed the narrow hall to the bathroom. “Together, but not together-together.  Apart together.” 

“What the Hell does that even mean?” Monique asked. 

“I’m nooot 100% sure,” Doug answered.

“But you want this kid,” she repeated.  Doug Eiffel would be a good father, at least at his high points.  He would be a loving and attentive father.  But he could barely take care of himself.  It was like everything else in his life: he  _ could  _ be great, but he always stopped himself.   

“More than anything.  I can’t explain it.” 

“Try it,” Monique said. 

“Huh?” 

“Tell me why you’re excited.  Tell me why you wanna be a dad ‘more than anything,’” Monique said from the bathroom.  “Tell me why you’re giving up this…this.” she said, using his phrasing.

“Is this some kind of Jedi mind trick?” asked Doug after a long pause.  

“What?  No!  What would I even be trying to make you do?”

“I don't know, Obi-Wan, but neither did that Storm Trooper,” he croaked. 

“It’s not a Jedi mind trick,” she sighed, returning the clean bucket to his bedside. “I'm just curious.  Why do you wanna raise a kid?”

Doug sighed.  “I don't know.  Lots of stuff.  Little stuff. Sometimes it gets real sappy.  Like Cheerios-commercial-playing-around-Christmas sappy.” 

“Like what?  Give me an example.” 

Another pause, Doug’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, a little chuckle.  He addressed the ceiling as he began to speak, “I keep thinking about making those soda bottle rockets?” He swallowed and glanced at her, “Me and my kid out in a field somewhere with this crappy painted Sprite bottle.  It's painted really messy and it’s got like cardboard wings,” he drew the scalene triangle in the air. “But they're lopsided.  And we set it off and it just shoots upwards.  Like, like it’s never gonna come down.  And my kid…they’re just…they’re amazed.  And when it starts to come down we go after it together and it hits the ground, just,  _ thud. _ And my kid grabs it up and hugs it and we set another one up to do it again.” 

“Keep going,” Monique whispered. 

“Not enough schmaltz for you?” he asked with that crooked smile.  “There’s one where I imagine my kid graduating high school.  And they’re…what do you call it…the smartest kid.  The Smartiest Pants Who Gives A Speech.” 

“The valedictorian,” Monique provided. 

“Yeah, that.  They’re that and they give their speech and they’re way smarter than I ever was.  And they don’t drink or smoke or do any of the dumb things I do.  And…and they’re happy.  We’re all together and we’re happy…” he trailed off and swallowed hard, then took a sharp inhale.  “And they look over at me while they’re giving their speech and I’m…I’m so proud of this kid.  Can I get a cigarette?” he asked.  She took the last one from the pack on the nightstand, picked up the BIC lighter from the bedside table and flicked it to life.  Doug winced against the light.  He took a sharp inhale and let the smoke out slowly. For a few moments he smoked quietly, wearing down his cigarette.  

Then he began again.  “I picture us eating pizza and watching cartoons when they’re like seven or eight...like they can’t sleep and I’m still up and we watch DVDs of  _ He-Man  _ or  _ Transformers  _ or something and heat up some Dominos.  And then they fall asleep on my shoulder.”  He looked down at his lap.  “Jeez, I’m starting to make myself sick with all this cotton candy sweetness.” He looked up again with that smirk on his face.  Sincerity gone.  Mask back.  Pushing Monique away again.

“I want you to remember why you’re doing this, because this is about to get really hard,” she said.  

He groaned, “That's reassuring."  He reached for the water but his hands shook and Monique took over for him.   

She held the water for Eiffel when it became clear that he would only spill it in his shaking hands. He took the last few puffs on his cigarette.  She passed him the upended ashtray.  “You got any more Cheerios commercials for me?” 

“Okay, doc, give it to me straight, you've had enough Hallmark cards for now. Tell me what's gonna happen.  What are you psyching me up for?” 

“Nightmares,” she began. 

“Beats insomnia,” Doug said.  

“Hallucinations,” she continued. 

“Pink Elephants on Parade,” he said, “Have I used that one yet?” 

Monique ignored that, “Fever, profuse sweating.” 

“Come on, alcohol withdrawal, step up your game.” 

“Anxiety, feelings of impending doom, paranoia.” 

“So I’ll be Rorschach?”  

She spoke quickly over him, “Confusion, panic attacks, feeling bugs under your skin, inability to think or speak clearly or correctly, foggy vision, delirium tremens – the DTs.”  He had stopped trying to interrupt her.  

Doug leaned back and let out a breath.  That seemed to finally reach him.  His tired green eyes stayed on the ceiling. “Okay,” he said finally.  He seemed like he was trying to collect his thoughts.  He was steeling himself up for what the universe was about to unleash on him.  He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, righting it. “Alright.  Okay.  Can I get another cigarette?” He looked like a man standing before a firing squad.  She couldn’t deny him his last cigarette.  

“Sure,” but the pack on the bedside table was empty. She picked it up and showed him. “You got more?”

“Always,” said Doug, he pointed to the bedside table.  “Should be in the drawer.”

She opened the nightstand drawer and was greeted by a tangle of wires, dust bunnies, papers, markers, a plastic baggie of what was definitely marijuana, and a couple of crumpled packs of cigarettes.  She moved aside a glass pipe to snatch a pack of Camels from the mess.  

“That glass pipe’s just for tobacco, right?” she asked sarcastically.

“Definitely just tobacco.  And that baggie is full of arugula.  Or oregano.  Whatever isn’t pot.”  He managed to place the cigarette in his mouth. 

“Lemme light it for you,” said Monique with a sympathetic _tisk_.  She did, and he winced against the light.  

“Thanks,” he said.  He inhaled, cigarette tip glowing brightly between his lips.  He tipped his head back and let the smoke curl upward from his lips, barely seeming to exhale.  “Alright,” he said.  “I’m ready for this.” 

“I’m calling in Sargent Watanabe, okay?” Monique asked, getting to her feet.  “If you’re not going to the hospital we at least need a medic.” 

“Tom Servo?” Doug asked with a tired smirk.  “He won’t freak out to see me like this?” 

“I’m not the only one who’s worked out your big secret, Doug,” said Monique, and Doug’s smile flickered.  Monique wasn’t sure if Kevin Watanabe knew the truth, but they needed someone who knew  _ something  _ about medicine, and he was the medic both she and Doug were closest to.

“Then, that’s fine,” he muttered.  Before she left the room she heard his voice from the bed again.  “Just…can you do me…I know I’ve been asking for a lot.  A lot, a lot.  But can you do me one more favor?” 

“Sure,” Monique said, stopping in the door and looking back at him, “what can I do?” 

“Don’t leave.” He looked pathetically at her, skin gray, eyes wide and full of fear.  “Don’t leave me alone.”  

Again she felt her heart break for him.  “I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

***

 

Eiffel was asleep when Sergeant Kevin Watanabe arrived.  He was an MOS 68W 5V and Monique would trust him with anyone’s life.  They’d served together in Afghanistan and she had firsthand experience with his care.  He also had plans to go to medical school soon; he knew some things about medicine outside of his training in the armed forces.  She wasn’t sure if he knew anything about alcohol withdrawal, but she trusted him to at least know when Doug was in danger.

Monique was reading everything she could about withdrawal and the DTs on her phone.  She wasn’t prepared for this and every bone in her body told her to get Doug Eiffel to a hospital.  But she promised him that would be a worst-case scenario and she intended to keep that promise.  

Watanabe was on the shorter side; black-haired, dark narrow eyes, a thin mouth and a default expression that always made him look more serious than he really was.  He had a heavy Minnesota accent, which was why Doug called him things like “Tom Servo,” and why  _ Fargo  _ came up a lot.  They weren’t friends, but they got along well.  Acquaintances, like most people Doug knew.

Evidently she had lied to Doug when she said that Watanabe knew.  He had no idea.  She had to explain everything to him over the phone.  “Watanabe?  It’s Lt. Roux – are you on base?”

“No,” he answered, “what’s up?  You sound downright  _ scared _ .”

“Are you free for the next few hours?” she asked.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.  “Will you tell me what’s up?”

“I need you to help me with Doug Eiffel,” she said.

“Doug Eiffel?   As in Airman Eiffel?”

“Well, he ain’t an airman at the moment, but yeah, him.   Jesus, Watanabe, he’s a mess.”

“A mess?” he repeated.  “I know the guy’s a goof but I don’t know about ‘a mess…’”

“He’s an alcoholic,” she said flatly.

A stunned silence and then, “What?”

“An alcoholic.  He has been for years.  A lot longer than either of us have known him.”

“No,” Watanabe said in disbelief.  “You’ve got to be… are you… are you really serious right now?”

“Would I joke about something like this?!” she demanded.  “Now shut up and listen to me!  He’s in withdrawal!  He’s trying to get clean and it’s gonna be a Hell of a trip!  I need help, Kevin.  I can’t do this alone and neither can Doug.  I’m...I’m afraid he’s going to end up dead.” A pause.  “Watanabe?”

“I don’t know anything about withdrawal,” said Watanabe in a quiet voice on the other end of the line.  

“You’re a medic.  I trust you on this.  I’ll give you Doug’s address, please come by.”

“Okay,” he said in that same quiet voice.   

He examined Doug who was quickly advancing into that anxious phase:  preoccupied with the fear that he was going to die.    

Watanabe sat down next to Monique on the couch.  He sighed.

“How bad?” she asked.

“He should be in a hospital or something,” Watanabe answered frankly.

“He can’t afford it,” Monique answered.  

“Of course he can’t,” Watanabe said darkly.  “These things are expensive as Hell.”

“So what do we do?” she asked him.

“Whatever we can,” he sighed.  “If he gets really bad, we take him to a real doctor, no matter how stupidly expensive it is or incredibly poor Airman Eiffel is.”  

“Agreed,” Monique said grimly.

Doug groaned wordlessly from the dark bedroom.  

“Poor jackass,” Watanabe said, “he’s in for a Hell of a time.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Monique.  She could tell something was deeply bothering Watanabe.  Something had cut him deeply.  

“Why didn’t he tell me?” He looked up at Monique.  “I wouldn’t have...maybe I could have helped.”

“Really?”

“I would have tried!” he answered, “but I thought we were friends and I never even...I didn’t realize…”

“There’s a lot he doesn’t say,” Monique said.  “Not just to you, to  _ anyone _ .  I figured this out for myself and I saw him a lot more often than you did.” 

“Do you think...do you think we’re friends?” 

“Honestly?” Monique said, and Monique Roux tried to be honest, “I don’t know if Doug has many friends at all.” 


	3. What Might Kill You

Danielle and her mother lived in apartment 5A.  Danielle was still in her pajamas, getting the paper for her mother who wasn’t yet awake but would be soon. Reaching half-way down, she paused.  The screaming was coming from 5B, across the hall. Doug’s apartment.  

 _Doug_ was _screaming._

It was a sound more horrible than anything she’d ever heard.

It made the hairs on her arm rise and goosebumps burst out across her flesh.  It was loud, shrill, desperate, almost inhuman.  Then it cascaded into something like a laugh, a hyena noise, there was no joy in that sound.  It was terrible.

Danielle gripped the newspaper to her chest and stared at Doug’s door.  She shouldn’t knock.  Her mom told her not to talk to him.  No matter how much she liked Doug, no matter if she thought of him as a friend, she shouldn’t knock on that door.  She shouldn’t check to see if he was all right.  She remembered what her mother told her: Doug was a drunk; he was dangerous.  The sounds coming from his apartment almost made Danielle believe it.

She should stay away from him. But Doug was _always_ nice. He looked out for her.  The last time she was left home alone without money (her mother’s cheque hadn’t cleared yet), a mysterious someone had ordered her a pizza. The buyer was Agent D – she knew exactly who _that_ was.  There was the time that their air conditioner broke and Doug had fixed it. He gave her a ride home once when she was stuck in the rain after school.  

She wanted to help him, too.  

She gathered all her resolve and knocked on the door.

A woman she didn’t recognize answered. There were always people going in and out of Doug’s apartment. Danielle rarely knew any of them, and none by more than just sight. There was the small woman with the tattoos and the half-hawk.  She came by often, but for the most part Doug’s visitors were a flipbook of different faces and forms, gone too quickly to properly identify. It seemed like he had a lot for friends, but they didn’t always return.  Sometimes, Doug himself didn’t come back to his apartment for several nights at a time, and whenever Danielle reported this, her mother would _tisk_ her tongue, shake her head, and remind Danielle what she had said about Doug in the past, and that she wasn’t supposed to talk to him.  

The woman at the door was a little taller than Danielle herself, but Danielle was tall for her age.  She had deep brown skin and light brown eyes. She wore her hair in an authoritative bun peeking out at the back of her head. She wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform, just a pair of pressed pants and a neat blouse, but she looked like she must usually wear one; a cop or a soldier or...or maybe Doug had been telling the truth when he told her he was a secret agent.

That was during the single instance she spent any length of unsupervised time with Doug. It was two years ago, summer, right after Danielle graduated fifth grade, the first summer Doug lived in the building.  She had lost her house key for the dozenth time and was standing in the hall on the verge of breakdown. She used to knock on her next-door neighbor’s door and wait with her, but the elderly woman had died that spring.  Danielle didn’t know the people who bought apartment 5C.  She was standing cluelessly in the hallway when Doug came up the stairs behind her.  He was singing something to himself – “Umbrella,” she realized as he got closer – and carrying a bag of what she thought was groceries.

“ _When the world has took its part.  When the world has dealt its cards.  If the hand is hard_ —” he stopped singing.  “Hey?“ Doug asked stopping at the top of the stairs. “Dan—it’s Danielle right?”

She nodded tearily.

“You okay?”

“I lost my key,” she said through a sniffle.

“Mom’s working, huh?” he asked.

She nodded again.

A pause. His expression was soft and sympathetic. “You got a dad you can call?”

She shook her head. Her dad didn’t even live in Harris County and she only saw him once or twice a year.  She was only allowed to see him when her mom said she could. Danielle didn’t know the rules, just what happened.

Doug sighed, scratched the back of his head with his free hand.  “That sucks...You...wanna come watch TV at my place?  It’s a shi – cra – it’s not clean,” he settled on finally, “but it’s better than the hallway that’s hotter than Mount Doom.”

“Like from _Lord of the Rings_?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said as he probed his pocket and pulled out a mass that consisted of more keychains than keys.  She followed him in and he looked surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting her to actually take him up on it. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then closed it and instead gave her a half-smile.  “There’s not a lot of food or anything.” He crossed the messy living room to his kitchenette. The apartment was smaller than hers.  Like hers, it opened on a living room, but it lacked a proper kitchen and there were only two doors off the main room. He put the bag down on the counter, and pulled out three big bottles and a cardboard box of six smaller ones.  He quickly put them in the fridge before she could get a good look at them and determine whether it was soda or alcohol.  “I _do_ have Netflix and Hulu and Steam and a bunch of comic books.”

“You have comic books?” She asked.  “Do you have Batman?”

“You’ve come to the right place, Danny Girl,” he said with a grin. He tossed the plastic bag into a stack of other plastic bags on the narrow counter.  Then he set her up with some comics he brought out of his bedroom.  “Do you know your mom’s work number?” he asked, pulling a cellphone from his pocket as she settled onto his couch with a _Hush_ trade paperback.  She gave him the number and he stood awkwardly as it rang, shifting his weight.  “Hey?  Uh...is Ms…Danielle’s mom…” he looked at Danielle and asked in a low voice, “what’s her last name?”

“D’Angelo,” whispered Danielle.

“Ms. D’Angelo?” said Doug with more confidence.

Danielle only heard half of the conversation, but it didn’t seem easy.  There was a pause while Doug waited for her mother to answer.  Then, “Uh...this is Doug.  Eiffel.  Your neighbor. Across the hall.” A pause. “Yep, that’s me.  I’m calling about Danielle.” A short pause, then a very urgently added, “No, no, she’s okay!  Don’t worry, she’s fine!  She lost her house key so…” pause, “I don’t know when. She was in the hall and really upset.” He glanced up at Danielle and gave her that sympathetic smile again. “She’s okay now.  She’s reading Batman here.  At my place.  Yes.  My apartment. No, I—” he stopped and listened for a few moments, his expression slightly glazed. “Yeah, yes, sure, right.  See you tonight.”

They were sitting on his couch reading comics together when she asked him what his job was.  She realized he should have been at work rather than sitting there showing her cool panels from his copy of Batman #670.  

“Hmm,” he pretended to think, “I don’t know if I can tell you. It’s very hush-hush.”

That made her even more curious. “What is it?”

“It’s security related... _National_ security.  Very important. Very secret,” he winked at her.

“Like a secret agent?” asked Danielle, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Well, I didn’t say _that,_ buuuuut…” he answered.

“No way,” she said, looking back at her comic.

“Yeah, way,” he said, but his tone was joking.  

She hadn’t really believed him, but she liked the game.  Plus she couldn’t shake the belief that maybe he _was_ .  He was...well, he was _weird_. He kept weird hours. He talked to weird people.  Weird people like the woman in front of her now as Doug shouted wordlessly in the apartment behind her.  This woman was definitely someone important.

Danielle took a step back.  “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” said the woman, raising her eyebrow.

“I’m his neighbor!  What are you doing to him?!” she demanded.

“Trying to keep his sorry butt alive!” said the woman tiredly.  

“Wh-what?” Danielle asked.

“He’s sick.  There’s a doctor with him.”

There was a pause.  The woman began closing the door.  

“Is it because he’s a drunk?” asked Danielle nervously.

“You—?” The woman looked surprised.  She paused, then slowly opened the door again.  “Come in.”

Danielle followed her into the apartment.

The first time she heard Doug called a drunk was that day Doug let her stay in his apartment until her mother came to get her.  It was late, past her bedtime, and Danielle had fallen asleep on Doug’s couch under a fuzzy blanket he got from the closet.  Her mother shook her awake.  She looked pale and worried.  She all but ran from the apartment, giving Doug a brief, “thank you” and barely waiting for the “No problem.  Bye Danielle.”

In their apartment Danielle told her mother she had had a good time with Doug, about the movies they watched and the comics she read when her mother stopped her.

“Danielle, I don’t want you to talk to him. Not ever again. Do you understand?”

“Why not?” she asked, horrified.

“That man is a drunk,” she said hoarsely, “He’s not safe to be around and I don’t want you getting hurt because of him.”

At the time she hadn’t really understood it.  Now, she did a little better.  It was the same reason why she wasn’t allowed to see her dad all the time. He was a junkie. She didn’t understand why some people were junkies or drunks and some weren’t, but she knew that the ones who _were_ were supposed to be bad people. They were out of control. They stole. They lied.  They acted strangely, irrationally, dangerously.  But while she knew her dad did some of those things...maybe all of those things...Doug _hadn’t_.  Not yet or not in front of Danielle anyway.  He had been fun, kind, silly.  She liked being around him.  It didn’t seem possible that he could be...what his mother said he was.  But still her mother told her to stay away.  

When her mother interacted with Doug, she treated him like something they pulled from the trash.  Danielle still talked to Doug, but only sometimes, and only when her mother wasn’t around.

Danielle remembered with horror the time her mother got Doug to fix their air conditioner. It was only a few weeks ago, the start of the school year, and it was the only time Doug had ever been in their apartment. Her mother had warned her beforehand, as if she was afraid of letting them near one another. From the second he walked in the door she treated him so badly that Danielle, watching from the couch, had been embarrassed.

“Hi,” he said when Danielle’s mother opened the door. He was carrying a rusty tool box and wearing a t-shirt with a band on it that Danielle didn’t recognize. Who or what the heck was Spinal Tap?

Her mother gave him a cold, “Hello.”

“Hey, Danielle,“ he said, raising his hand in greeting.

She grinned, “Hi!”

“How’s school go—”

“Let me show you the air conditioner,” her mother said.

“Right, sure,” he gave Danielle an apologetic look.

Her mother brought him inside. “Roger Lee downstairs says you’re good at this kind of thing.”

Doug shrugged, “I’m not Gadget but I’m not too bad at it.”

“It won’t turn on.  I’ll pay you,” said her mother without acknowledging his answer.  She pointed to the A/C unit in the window.  

“Right.  Sure,” he said, popping off the outer casing.  It took a little while for Doug to get everything fixed. Her mother watched him the whole time. Danielle and he had brief near-conversations that her mother supervised and edited. Every so often her mother would make some kind of reference to Doug’s being a drunk. Something about bottles in the hall. Late nights. Stumbling in.  Do you want a drink?  Water, I mean.  Doug would get tight-lipped and quiet for a couple of minutes, but he never disagreed with her. I’ll clean up. I’ll try to keep it down.  I don’t need anything, thanks.  

It made Danielle angry that her mother would do that to stop them from talking, like she had to remind Danielle that Doug was bad.  Even though he was always, _always_ nice whenever they saw each other. Danielle was beginning to think there were two Dougs.  One her mother saw and one Danielle saw. Two men with two lives inside one body.  

When he finished, he put the case back on and pressed the button. The air conditioner beeped and came to life, sending a refreshing jet of cool air over them. “And done.”  He put his hand in front of the air coming into the room.  “Cool as Steve Rogers after his crash.”  Danielle grinned.  She got _that_ reference at least.

The exchange of money was somehow the worst part. Danielle couldn’t explain why, but there was this look of understanding between the two adults. Danielle’s mother looked cold, judgmental. Doug looked somehow both determined and ashamed at the same time, as if he knew what he was going to do, but he wasn’t proud of it. There was a moment in which they both held the bill that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then it was just in Doug’s hand and he stuffed it into his pocket. “Thanks.” He gave Danielle a little wave, the double-look disappearing and the warm smile returning as he did so, “See ya, Danielle!”  

She waved back, “See you!”

And then he was gone. _This_ was the first time she had any trace of him in weeks.

“Take a seat,” said the woman, pointing to the patched armchair. It smelled like cigarette smoke, but so did everything in Doug’s apartment.  “How do you know that about Doug?  Have you seen him drinking?”

“No,” Danielle told her honestly, “my mom told me.  She doesn’t want me around him. It’s not…she’s not a bad person, I swear, it’s just that...my dad…” She wanted to defend both her parents, but it was hard to excuse one without damning the other.  “He’s gotten into some stuff,” Danielle said as simply as possible, twisting the bottom of her t-shirt and not meeting the stranger’s eye.  “And because of what he’s done, my mom thinks that Doug’s the same way because he’s also into…stuff.”

Danielle glanced up enough to see her nod. “Well, you can tell your mom Doug’s—” they were interrupted by a hoarse bark from the other room, not a laugh, not a sob, something in-between.  Danielle looked from the source of the noise to the woman.  She continued, “Doug’s fixing himself.  That’s what all this is.  My name is Lt. Roux. I served with Doug in the Air Force.”

“Why does he sound like _that_ ?” Danielle whispered. She barely registered that this woman, a lieutenant, just told her that Doug was in the armed forces, something Danielle didn’t know. But that wasn’t important right now.  What _was_ important was whatever nightmare was happening in the other room.  Why would fixing something sound so much worse than being in it?  

“Because it’s hard to stop this kind of thing,” Lt. Roux answered.

“Why does anybody start?” Danielle asked.  She understood that people got addicted, but you had to start to get addicted.  That was what they said at school.   _Just Say No_.  She didn’t know, she didn’t understand why people like her father and Doug got into this in the first place.  Didn’t they know what would happen?

“That’s a good question,” Lt.Roux sighed.

He didn’t like drinking. She thought she knew that. Just from that look he gave her mom that day. He looked ashamed whenever she mentioned something about it.  Even if her mom couldn’t see the shame.  He wasn’t happy about being a drunk.  

In school they never said much about why someone might become an addict.  But they did say that some people liked having their minds altered, put somewhere else, in another place, another state, away from reality.  Sometimes Danielle could almost understand that.  She often wondered what her father was running from.  Now she wondered what Doug was.  

“So now that you know what’s going on, you can go home. Your mom probably wants the paper, huh?”

Danielle was shaken from her thoughts.  “What?”

“You can go home,” Lt. Roux repeated.

“Can I come back?” she asked.  She was worried about Doug and worried that, if she left, Lt. Roux would edit the truth, keep the darker side from her or, worse, not tell her anything at all.  That was what people always did.  That was why she never knew what was really going on with her dad.  That was why her mother wanted to keep her away from their neighbor when he could have been her friend.  People thought that because she was a kid she couldn’t handle the truth, but Danielle believed she could, no matter how ugly.  She _knew_ there were more to the stories she heard.  And right now she would get that truth.  She couldn’t stay, her mother would worry, but tomorrow her mother would be at work and she didn’t need to know Danielle went to Doug’s apartment.

“What?” Lt.Roux asked.

“Can I come back tomorrow, after school,” she asked.  

An uneasy silence fell over them.  Danielle could hear a muted conversation in the other room, she couldn’t quite make it out.  

“Look,” Lt. Roux said, rubbing her forehead, “you’re just a kid—”

“I’m 12!” shouted Danielle.

“Yeah, a kid!”

“I’m worried about him!  The same as you!  He’s my neighbor and my friend!  I want to know what’s wrong with him!  I want to know he’s going to be okay!”  Danielle snapped.  “I’m not just some kid!  I can make my own decisions!”

Lt. Roux stared at her.  Danielle matched her look, trying to keep her glare as steady and unwavering as Lt. Roux’s.  Danielle was honestly intimidated by the woman staring her down, but she put all her feelings into this stare, her anger at being treated like a child, her affection for Doug, her fear, everything.  Eventually Lt. Roux sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “I’m not going to be able to chase you away, am I?”

“No,” Danielle said firmly.

 

***

 

The next day she had school, but afterward, instead of going into her apartment to do her homework, she went, backpack and all, to Doug’s.  Lt. Roux opened the door for her, shaking her head.  “You’re really back.”

“Yeah,” Danielle said.  

“Does your mom know you’re here?”

“No,” Danielle admitted.  “She wouldn’t let me come.  She’s not home, though.  She won’t be home until late.”

Danielle removed her backpack and sat down on the couch.  She noticed it was cleaner and she suspected that Lt.Roux may have done some sprucing up to make the place livable for anyone who wasn’t Doug.  Danielle was always a neat person and it was difficult to imagine how someone could let their home get as dirty as Doug’s.  There was still no sign of Doug himself, only Lt.Roux.  

“Is he okay?” she asked nervously.

“No,” sighed Lt.Roux, “but no worse off than he should be.”

“Should be?” asked Danielle.

“I told you it’s not easy getting better.”

The door to Doug’s bedroom opened and a man exited, not Doug, too small, too pale, the hair too straight and short.  He was carrying a bag and a stethoscope hung around his neck.  The word “Fuck!” followed him into the living room.  He went immediately into the kitchenette, opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water from it.  

“How’s he doing?” asked Lt.Roux.  

“Not well...but he’s not dead,” sighed the man, he poured water into a glass emblazoned with the Hulk.  “If he has a seizure, I’m putting him in a hospital.”

“Is he having a seizure?” asked Lt.Roux.

“Not yet,” he grabbed a handful of chips from an opened bag on the counter, “but he’s shivering, sweating, his heartbeat is irregular, he has no idea where he is, barely knows _who_ he is.  He’s been complaining about bugs under his skin…I don’t like this…” He turned, stopped, blinked, and stared at Danielle.  “Why is there a kid here?!”

“This is Danielle,” said Lt.Roux.  “She’s his neighbor.”

“And his friend!” said Danielle.  She decided that that was why she was here; she was his _friend_ regardless of whatever her mother said.  She set herself up at the table, took out her textbooks and notebooks.  She watched the two adults exchange a look.  Some kind of silent conversation went between them.  She glanced from one to the other trying to figure out what was being communicated.  

After the pause, the man said, “Sir, would you mind watching Airman Eiffel for a few minutes?  Just tell me if anything changes.”

“Okay, get some rest, Watanabe,“ said Lt. Roux.  

He took a sip of his water then crossed to the couch, sat down, leaned back and closed his eyes. He seemed to feel Danielle’s on him and opened his again to glance over at her.

“Sooo, you’re his neighbor, huh?”

“Yes,” she answered, “I’m Danielle.”

“I’m Kevin,” he said.  Kevin picked up a toy X-Wing from the end table.  He opened the hatch where a Luke Skywalker action figure sat in the cockpit, then closed it again.  “What are you working on?” he asked.  

“Pre-algebra,” she muttered. “Is he going to be okay?”

Kevin considered his answer, drank some of his water, and sighed, “I hope so.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?” asked Danielle, giving him a considering look.  Who was he if not a doctor?

“I’m a medic who wants to be a doctor.  I’ve got training, but not for this,” he rubbed his tired eyes.  “But!” he added after looking at Danielle’s anxious face, “but he’s not in danger right now.  He’s doing okay, you know, considering.”

“Okay,” she let out the breath she’d been holding, “good.  He hasn’t been yelling so much today.”

“You missed this morning,” muttered Kevin, but then he said, “The hallucinations have calmed down a bit for now.  They’ll be back, though.  Don’t get too comfortable.  They’ll peak in a couple of days...I shouldn’t tell you this stuff…”

“Please do!” Danielle finally felt like she was in the loop, “Please keep telling me what’s going on!  It’s worse not knowing!”

“Okay, okay, but it’s not my fault if you get...upset or scared or something.  Deal?”

“Deal,” she smiled.   Something about him reminded her a little of Doug.  Maybe it was that he didn’t talk down to her.  He may have called her a kid, but he didn’t treat her like one.  He spoke to her.   _To_ her, not around her.  “Were you and Doug in the Air Force together?”

“Yep,” he answered.  “I’m a frie...well, an acquaintance.”

“Why don’t you think you’re friends?” asked Danielle, scowling.

“Because if we were, wouldn't he tell me about his...about how he ended up like this?”  Kevin said.  “Wouldn’t he have opened up about...?”

“About being a drunk?” supplied Danielle. No one else seemed to be able to say the word. Maybe she inherited the ease from her mother. Maybe she was missing something, some greater understanding that made it so forbidden. It was bad, but it was also right in front of them. Maybe she lacked tact, or maybe she was right.

Kevin let out a mirthless laugh.  “The nicer term is ‘alcoholic.’”

“They mean the same thing,” she shrugged. “Maybe he was too embarrassed to tell you.  Did you think of that?”

“Maybe he was, I don't know. I feel like...I feel like there's a lot I don’t know about Eiffel. I didn’t know where he lived. I don’t know where he’s from. I feel like...we’ve known each other over a year and I feel like I’ve talked to him more about _Quantum Leap_ than I have about, well, him,” Kevin admitted. “Has he ever told you anything about himself?” he asked curiously. He was fiddling with the Luke Skywalker action figure now, standing the little pilot up straight and trying to balance him on his own two plastic feet.

“...No,” admitted Danielle after a moment of thought. It was startling. It wasn't as if she didn't tell _him_ things. That day she sheltered in his apartment they’d talked for hours.  He’d learned the ins and outs of her friend group enough that in future meetings he could ask about the gossip and understand – or at least seem like he understood – what was going on. But what had he told _her?_  What did she know about him?  She didn’t know any names, any locations from his past – she still didn't even know what his _job_ was. He was in the Air Force. Maybe it _was_ secret.

It struck her hard how little she knew without having realized it.

“That’s like Eiffel...I think,” Kevin sighed and drank more of his water. “If I actually know anything about him at all.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Danielle snapped.  “He can tell me whatever he wants!  I don’t need to know all his secrets to call him my friend, and you don’t either!”

Watanabe stared at her, holding the action figure but not saying a word.  

“Everybody has secrets,” muttered Danielle.  “Don’t they?”

“Okay, but how many secrets does Eiffel have?”  He let out a breath and shook his head.  “That’s not fair of me, huh?  I guess I just wish I knew him.”

Danielle had no answer, because she wished she did, too.  


	4. Makes You Stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to continue my tradition (from the SI-5 fics) of putting up the last two chapters in the same day. So here you go.

 

It was as if someone ran an eraser over the blackboard in his head.  The hundreds of racing and irrational confused thoughts were gone, leaving only a haze of chalk dust where they had been.  How long had he been like this?  He was lying like a starfish on his back in his bed.  He remembered pacing until he couldn’t stand.  He remembered walking for miles, but then, this room used to be a lot bigger, didn’t it?  How long had cold turkey had him on the run?  He was still shivering slightly, but that might have been the slick, cold sweat on his skin, cold to his very core.   _ “Goose-pimple bone _ ,” thought Doug, “ _ John was right.” _  It was probably the most coherent thought he’d had for...hours?  Days?  Years? 

His mouth tasted like death.  Not metaphorically, but he honestly thought this must be what Imhotep’s mouth would be like: dusty and dry and sour.   _ “The Mummy Returns _ , _ ”  _ he thought as he lugged himself into a sitting position.  His head felt heavy enough to pull him back onto the pillow.  His eyes hurt.  Behind his eyes hurt.  Everything hurt, really.  He  _ ached _ .  

But there weren’t bugs trying to get out from under his skin anymore.  He’d had that Pearl Jam song repeating in his head before, single lines playing over and over again: _ I got bugs on my skin. _  And sometimes he thought they were real.  He swore he could see them.  _ Bugs on my ceiling….crowded the floor...standing sitting kneeling….a few block the door _ . The song playing out in front of him.  But that was all gone now.  He grabbed a t-shirt off the floor, Captain America’s shield emblazoned on the front.  He yanked it on over his head.  He tugged on a pair of pajama bottoms he’d kicked off at the foot of the bed.   

The walls had stopped swirling,  _ The Yellow Wallpaper  _ style.  He was going to pull  _ The Shining  _ poster off of his wall because more than once he saw Jack Nicholson climb out of it and crawl like a Xenomorph across the ceiling, dribbling acid over his bed.  He thought he’d had conversations with Jerry Lundegaard, who kept trying to push him back into bed.  There were other visitors, other things, some of them just blurred ghosts in that chalk haze.  But some were so clear that he didn’t know where the dreams had stopped and reality began. 

He had been shaking.  His heart had been threatening to explode.  He had been too cold and too hot at once.  He took a cigarette from the bedside table.  He was still in a vague haze, but it was more bemusement than anxiety, trying to piece together what had happened, what was real, what wasn’t.  It took a few flicks to bring his BIC to life, then he took a long inhale of his life-giving cigarette.  He groaned around it, nicotine was the best medicine.  He could hear voices in his living room.  He wondered if he was still hallucinating.  

Who would be there?  Why would anyone be there?  He was alone.  He was so often alone.  No.  No, he wasn’t.  Lt. Roux.  Monique.  His heart caught.  Maybe, maybe she was still there.  Maybe he wasn’t alone!  But who was she talking to?  

He dragged himself to his feet, nearly stumbling over the debris in his room.  He felt heavy but his feet worked.  He opened his bedroom door slowly and he heard the conversation stop.  He stepped out into his living room.  Monique  _ was _ still there, that sent a wave of warmth over him.  

He wasn’t alone.  

He really wasn’t alone.  

There were three people in his apartment, waiting for him.  They all turned to look at him.  He quickly realized why he thought Jerry Lundegaard had been there, Kevin Watanabe was, and that accent tossed him into  _ Fargo  _ territory regardless of whether or not he was reenacting  _ Trainspotting _ .  The third person jumped to her feet, a young white girl with straw-colored hair...Danielle D’Angelo from across the hall.   

He wondered how long she’d been there.  He wondered how long the three of them had been waiting.  Just waiting.  For  _ him _ .  Suddenly he forgot about all the aches and pains, all the anxiety and angst, and he smiled.  It was heartwarming.  Someone – three someones – cared about his lazy, stupid, drunk ass even if  _ he  _ didn’t.  He didn’t know how anyone  _ could _ , but they  _ did. _

“Hey gang,” croaked Doug.  

Danielle ran across the room and threw herself at him, hugging him around the middle.  “You’re okay!” 

“Whoa!  Hey there!” Doug said, his arms snapped up almost in surrender.  Then he patted her on the head, smiling tiredly down at her.  She let go of him and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.  Was she  _ crying?   _ Crying over  _ him? _  “Yeah, I’m okay.”  He knew he probably didn’t look it.  How long had it been since he’d had a shower?  This might have been a record even for him.  And he was definitely bearded by now, more unkempt than usual.  But he was on his feet and not shivering uncontrollably in his bed, that was a step up.  

“I thought you were going to—” but she stopped and smiled through teary brown eyes.  

“Me?  Nah!  You’re looking at Wolverine 2.0,” Doug said tiredly.  He was lying to her, lying to himself; he had definitely been afraid he was going to die.  

Watanabe got up next, pulling his stethoscope from his bag, and crossing to Doug.  “Hang on, let me listen to your heart.” Monique was standing by the coffee table, silently watching the other two as if she was waiting her turn to speak.  

“Did you put that thing in the freezer before sticking it on me, Bones?” Doug asked as Watanabe put the stethoscope to his chest, going under his shirt.

“Shh,” was the response.  After a few moments the medic removed the chestpiece from Doug’s skin and sighed, “Your heart rate slowed down.”

“Good?” he tried.

“Yeah, it’s very good,” Watanabe said, patting him on the shoulder.  “You need a shower.”

“Yeah, probably,” Doug responded.  

“Well, you made it through the worst of it,” Watanabe said.

“I hope so, otherwise I might go Yoyo Dodo.”

“I almost never know what you’re talking about,” Watanabe shook his head.

“I get that a lot,” Doug said.  

“Drink a lot of water.  Keep yourself occupied.  Talk to...somebody...if you can.  And...Lt. Roux has my number...if you need it,” Watanabe said.  He looked at Doug differently than he ever had before.  Less friendly.  Was it reservation in his voice?  Had Doug finally gone too far?  

“Cool, thanks,” Doug said.

“Take care of yourself,” Watanabe said.  “ _ Please  _ take care of yourself.  And...you know I’m there for you, right?”

“Of course,” said Doug.  But he hadn’t until now.  He hadn’t really thought  _ anyone  _ was there for him besides Monique, and he honestly thought even  _ she _ had limits, until now.    

Watanabe was getting ready to leave. “I’ll see you next time you enlist.”  

“That might be pretty soon,” Doug told him.  He wasn’t sure exactly when.  He didn’t feel like he could do much right now.  Would he be able to decrypt an incoming message?  If you dropped him in front of a pulse beacon relay, would he be able to get a message into deep space?  If he got interference, would he be able to tell if it was a craft or the machines picking up the changes in air pressure they called “angels.”  Hell, he barely felt like he could stand.

But then, he was doing a pretty good job of keeping on his own two feet.  That, in itself, was astonishing.  So maybe he was still just classic Doug Eiffel pathetic and not something new and worse.  Same old Doug.  Just without the booze.

_ Without the booze.   _

Jesus Christ.  

Who  _ was _ he without the booze?  Had he ever been anyone without it?  He was 12 the first time he had a drink.  He was 15 when he realized life was so much easier when he just let go and let the booze carry him.  When was the last time he hadn’t had even a light buzz?  Was it when he figured out how to get alcohol into the military academy?  When he was 18 or 19?  He was almost 26 now.  It had been a long time.  Who was he when he went from 16 drinks to zero?

“Good.  See you then,” said Watanabe briskly.  He stopped and looked back at Doug, tracing his face with his eyes.  He looked like he was considering something, thinking.  Doug still thought he seemed hurt.  He lingered at the door a moment, took a deep breath as if he was going to say something, but eventually seemed to decide against it.  “Danielle, nice meeting you.  Lt. Roux, see you tomorrow.”

“You too,” Danielle said.

“Bye,” Monique answered.  “See you tomorrow.”

There was a pause that Doug hated and tried to fill, “Sooo…how long was I out?”

“Five days,” said Monique.  

“Five days?” Doug repeated.  “It felt...it felt longer.”

“Yeah, it did,” agreed Monique.  “But you made it.”

“I made it,” repeated Doug, almost in awe.  He vaguely remembered Monique being there at times, with him in his endless room, cutting through the hallucinations and the fear.  “Were you...were you here the whole time?”

“Yep,” she answered, “I told the Captain I had a family emergency and Watanabe was here whenever he had an off shift.   And Danielle was here every day after school.”

Doug looked down at Danielle who met his gaze.  Doug smiled appreciatively, deeply touched. “You guys didn’t need to–”

“Yes, I did.”

“Yes,  _ we  _ did,” said Danielle.

He felt that warmth again.  He liked people.  He did.  He always had.  He hated being alone.  It happened so often, solitude, silence, time when his own thoughts caught up to him, his own darkness.  Being alone scared him.  There was nothing that scared him more.  But for some reason he had a hard time actually getting close to people.  He was friendly with everyone, but he had few friends.  He didn’t know why he never reached out.  Why he never looked for anyone else beyond brief, momentary respite from being alone.  He just didn’t.  Probably because he didn’t think he was worth knowing _.   _ He wasn’t worth caring about.  He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to know more about him.  It wasn’t worth the effort of reaching out.  Too hard.  Too much work.  So much easier to be casual.  So much easier to just...not.  

Kate was the rare exception, one of the few people he actually sought out, who he let in.  Maybe because Kate and he were each as dangerously fucked up as the other.  She could have been better than he, but she reduced herself to his level.  They were wrecks together.  Two broken hulks weathering the same storm.  There wasn’t anyone else who cared, because everyone else was so far above him he was only a dot, less than a dot – they were in a plane flying overhead and he was on the ground. 

But Monique was here.  Danielle was here.  Watanabe had come.  Why?  Monique had gone above and beyond for his sorry ass. All three of them cared enough about him to be here.  Someone cared.  Three people.  He felt himself smile.   He hoped he was worth it.  

Danielle’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she quickly snatched it up.  “Oh man,” she muttered.  “My mom wants me to do the laundry.  It can wait…” 

“Nah, go do it,” Doug said to her.  “You don’t want mom going all Joan Crawford on you.” 

Danielle looked confused then laughed.  “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. 

“So’m I,” Doug answered.  “I hope I didn’t scar you for life.” 

“Nah,” she said with a grin, “I’m not just a kid.” 

“No, you’re not,” Doug assured her.  He liked Danielle.  She was a smart kid, a good kid, a fun kid.  She would grow into a cool adult, at least insofar as Doug was concerned.  She was responsible, too.  A better grownup than he ever was.  She took better care of herself now than Doug ever had.  At 12 he started sneaking drinks from the fridge; he didn’t think Danielle would ever do that.  She was an honor student; Doug always got “see me” written across the top of his homework when he bothered to do it.  But he saw some of himself in her.  Her mom was never around.  No dad.  Hours alone.  All alone.  Danielle just handled it better than he ever did.  

She gave him one last quick hug, then scooped up her bag, and left, too.  

Then it was just him and Monique.  

“Sit down, Doug,” she said pointing at his own sofa.

“Aye-aye, sir!” Doug saluted tiredly.  Monique smirked and shook her head as he scaled the back of the couch and flopped down onto the cushion.   

“Are you hungry?” she asked. 

“Yeah, starving!” Doug admitted.  “I don’t remember the last thing I really ate.” 

“Soup, earlier this afternoon.” 

“That actually happened?” he asked. 

“That actually happened,” she nodded. “I was there.” 

“I can’t believe you really…” 

“You’re my _ friend,  _ Doug, I told you before.  And I take care of my friends.” She gave him a smile.  “You’d do the same for me.” 

“I would,” he said honestly.  “But you’d never need it,” he grinned.  There was a pause, then he said, “You’re...my friend, too.” He was telling the truth.  Not just because of this.  Not just because she made sure he didn’t have a seizure and swallowed his own tongue because he couldn’t keep away from the bottle.  Not just because she  _ stayed. _

She was his friend because she was  _ her _ .  A softie under that hardass veneer.  She watched reality TV and cried at the end of movies, pretending she didn’t do either.  She had excellent taste – at least as far as physical characteristics went – in the assorted genders.  Sometimes,  _ sometimes,  _ she sent him dumb pictures back in response to his.  There was that time a white cat got onto the airfield and he sent her a LOLcat message.  She took a picture of the cat, too, now being chased by a controller, his arms outstretched and flat out running after this sprinting cat.  She sent back another perfectly misspelled LOLcat message: “ _ o noes just wnted a cheezburger!!!11!”  _ She was brave and badass and smart and, somehow, she put up with his stupidity.  She was his friend and he was glad.  

“Want a pizza?” she asked, pulling her phone from her pocket. 

“Monique Roux, _ you _ are a mind reader,” he groaned.  “You fantastical, magical woman, a pizza would be paradise.”

“Where should we order from?” she asked.

“There’s a Domino’s a couple blocks from here, I’ve got their number on my phone,” he hauled himself to his feet with a grunt and rubbed his back dramatically like an old man ready to complain about arthritis.  He found his phone tangled in his bedsheets.  When he turned Monique stood in the doorway and he tossed her the phone.  She caught it easily.  

“There’s nothing under ‘Domino’s’,” she said, frowning.  

“It’s under ‘Life Giving Ambrosia,’” Doug explained.  

She laughed.  She actually laughed.  Not a chuckle, not a chortle, but a full, head-thrown-back laugh.  Those were rare, it was hard to get to that sweet spot. It had to be something that was stupid enough to be funny, but not so stupid that it just made Monique roll her eyes.  “Yeah, there it is,” she said, still smiling.  “What do you want on it?” she asked.  

"Pineapple and ham," he said, grinding out his cigarette butt in the ashtray on his bedside table.  He began searching the table for another pack, found one beside his pillow, but it proved empty.  He groaned.  

“Doug,” Monique said from the bedroom door.  He turned and she tossed him a pack of cigarettes.  Despite the throw being well telegraphed, Doug still barely caught it, fumbling it between his hands.  He pulled one out and put the pack in the pocket of his PJ bottoms. 

"I figured you’d need them," she said as Doug ignited his cigarette.  

“Are you sure you aren’t a saint?” he asked. 

“Positive,” she answered, phone to her ear.  “Hi, I’d like to place an order for delivery…”

As they reentered the living room, Doug noticed now how much cleaner it was than before.  The trash had been taken out.  The empty bottles were all gone, thank God.  He didn’t know if he could stand to look at them.  Someone had vacuumed; he hadn’t even heard the sound.  His toys were arranged rather than randomly scattered.  It looked almost like an adult lived there.  He dropped back onto the couch and leaned back, smoking peacefully.  He played with one of his Gundam figures.

"You always put your feet up on the table?" Monique asked as she ended the call.

"Usually," Doug answered, looking skeptically at his bare feet.

She shook her head.  “When I told them your address they said they got worried when you hadn’t ordered anything in almost a week.”  

“Aww, that’s nice of them,” Doug said, blowing a smoke ring ceiling-ward.

“Somebody named Hank says ‘hi,’” Monique told him. 

Doug chuckled.  He was the guy who answered the phone and worked behind the counter for the evening shift.  Nice guy.  Chatty.  “I’m pretty much their Norm.” 

“How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting next to him.  

“Okay,” he said.  “Waaaay better than I did before.” 

“What was it like?” she asked nervously. 

Doug took a deep drag on his cigarette.  This wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.  He didn’t want to talk about the nightmares, the hallucinations, the constant pain, the shakes he couldn’t stop, the sweat, the tears.  He had never been through anything worse in his life and there were a lot of terrible drunken nights to choose from.  He didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared at the ceiling.  “You know, that crack looks a lot like Chris Pine,” he said finally, pointing.  

Monique sighed.  “Okay, I get it.” 

“Get what?” Doug asked, “How the crack in my ceiling is weirdly attractive?” He lit another cigarette with the butt of the dying one.  

“Never mind,” she said.  

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Doug asked, something distracting, something familiar, something far away from the past five days.  And something that kept Monique there.  He didn’t want her to leave too.  

“Sure,” she said.  “You know, I’ve never actually seen  _ Star Wars _ .” 

Doug gasped and stared at her in mock alarm.   _ “That  _ is a  _ crime!”  _

“I’ve never been much of a sci-fi fan,” she shrugged.

“It’s not about sci-fi,” said Doug, shaking his head sadly, “ _ Star Wars  _ is the greatest cultural achievement of all time.” 

“I doubt that’s—” 

“The _greatest_ cultural achievement of all time.  We need to fix that like _yesterday!_ Hang on; let me go get the DVD.  I’ve got a bootleg of the un-‘Special Edition,’” he added air quotes around Special Edition.  He didn’t hate it as much as he said he did.  He did _hate_ that they changed a classic to add a bad CGI Jabba the Hutt to _New Hope_ and Hayden Christiansen's stupid face at the end of _Return_ , further acknowledging the truly horrible prequels, but he wasn’t quite as incensed as he acted.  All part of the Doug Eiffel front: he didn’t know why he did it, but he always did. Before Monique could either confirm or deny her desire to watch _Star Wars_ , Doug hopped the back of the couch.  He returned quickly, blowing dust off the bottom of the DVD.  “Ready?” 

“Sure,” Monique answered.  

Luke and Ben had just found each other when the pizza arrived.  Monique got the door.  The delivery woman, Sarah, knew Doug and told him she was glad he was okay.  “We were all super-worried,” she explained.  Monique dropped the pizza box on the coffee table and went to get plates.  Before she could, Doug was already snatching up a slice, his stomach rumbling loudly.  

He bit down into the pizza and let out a groan that was nearly obscene. It was the best way to break his fast that he could think of.

“Really?  You couldn’t wait four seconds?” Monique asked as she sat down next to him, plates in hand.  

“I couldn’t help it,” Doug said through a full mouth.  “It was calling to me.”  

She took a slice and put it on her plate.  She half-watched the movie as she picked pineapple off her pizza.  Doug realized she didn’t like it, but she had gotten it just for him, because  _ he  _ wanted it.  He would have compromised on something else, but she hadn’t asked him to.  That made him smile again.  She’d done so much for him.  He was so glad he could call her his friend, so glad it overwhelmed him.  

“Monique?” 

“Yeah?” she asked. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“Now that you’re through it...you’re welcome.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [my Tumblr](http://queenofthecommunistcannibals.tumblr.com/) for lots more Wolf 359 stuff.


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